


Alarming tactics

by rosehead



Series: Bottom Dollar [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Adoptive Siblings, M/M, broganes, yet again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27709093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosehead/pseuds/rosehead
Summary: Keith is too tired to realize that he's on the wrong street, and Lance is reduced to a stuttering idiot. Not like Keith notices anyway.
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Allura & Coran & Hunk & Keith & Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt & Shiro, Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Bottom Dollar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025517
Comments: 5
Kudos: 104





	Alarming tactics

There were some things that Lance would never forget. Some Experiences that just stuck to his mind, molding themselves to every nook and cranny. Sometimes, they weren't even experiences that were particularly important in his growth or anything, but just moments that he remembered best. 

There was the time when the McClain family had been living in Dallas, Texas (not a great idea on his dad's part; their neighborhood comprised mostly of white people who were very surprised to see a Latino family there) and it had snowed for the first time in _ten years_. It never snowed in Dallas, but that year, it somehow _had_ , and the _entire city_ shut down. 

They never knew how to deal with snow, and schools, convenience stores, offices- _-everything--_ shut down. Lance remembered being four and wishing desperately for snow, then being overjoyed when it had happened. He remembered dashing to the giant french window along with Rachel and pressing his little nose to the cold glass, watching as the world outside go whiter and whiter until everything finally disappeared.

He'd cried, later, because he had one nice black glove and one mitten too small for his hands, but he'd played in the snow anyway. And then he'd cried some more because his asshole older siblings kept pelting him with snowballs until he fell over.

Then there had been the time he and Marco and Veronica had flown kites in the field. Veronica had had this giant pink Ariel kite, and he and Marco both had Transformer ones, and it had been so, _so_ windy.

Then the time he'd played with farting clay with Luis and his clay had gotten stuck to the carpeted floor until he'd scraped it out. 

Then him and Marco playing with Uno cards, Marco laughing at him for not being able to shuffle and then promptly screwing up his own shuffling. Luis asking for bananas for dinner, because he'd had a fruit phase. Playing hide-and-seek with Rachel and hiding in the pantry and eating those little bear-shaped cookies. Arguing with Marco over who got to sleep closest to their mother while she read stories. Going to Veronica's taekwondo class and watching a weird, black-and-white Stranger Danger video which she had no recollection of. 

He remembered snatches of memories here and there, like a patchwork of his childhood sewn into his brain. The memories weren't always fully accurate, mainly because he remembered it with a kind of pleased, nostalgic haze that made everything rosy in comparison. 

It turned out, hitting a pretty boy with his car also turned out to be one of those Experiences.

Lance muddled along in classes just fine, turning in assignments and presentations just fine. But occasionally, his mind would wander, and he'd catch himself thinking of violet eyes and a pale face and a rusty, unused laugh. 

This time, Hunk caught him at it. 

"Bro, what's up with you?" Hunk, the ever-so-watchful-kind-best-friend, asked. "You've been staring into that cup of coffee for, like, ten minutes now. Like it holds all the answers to the universe."

Lance's cup of coffee had a cute little creamer cat swirling in the middle. He'd asked the barista (a pretty, smiley, blonde girl with two ponytails) specially, and she'd just given him an indulgent smile and agreed.

Was the cat the answer to his universe? 

If he named it Keith, then yes, maybe. 

Pidge leaned over the small table in the cafe to prod him and Lance jumped. "Come on, drink up. Or I'll drink it for you."

Lance immediately scowled and pulled his mug closer to him. "No way are you drinking this." He knew exactly what would happen. Pidge was a caffeine-consuming monster. She didn't even have preferences-- _anything_ that possessed the magic chemical to keep her awake at ungodly hours was tossed down her throat. Hunk despaired of her. Coffee shop employees feared her.

"So," Hunk prompted. "What's wrong?"

Lance plunged his stirrer stick into the coffee and stirred so vigorously that the creamer cat was all gone by the time he took a sip. "Well, I was on the good side of a car accident last night."

Hunk put down his mug so fast Lance could've sworn he saw him spit his hot cocoa back into it. "What do you mean by _the good side_ of a car accident?"

"It means he hit someone with his car," Pidge said dryly, and took a long, slurping sip from her sugarless black tea. Lance made a face at her. 

"That's right," he admitted, and took a swig at his caramel latte. "He, um, he needed stitches, and I took him to the ER."

Hunk just stared at Lance in stupefied silence. Pidge looked wicked. 

"He was a cute boy, wasn't he?" she teased, and oohed loudly when Lance's cheeks promptly went red. "Ooh, what's his name?"

"Shut up." He tore off a bit of napkin and flicked it at her like the mature adult he was. "He lent me a dollar for the vending machine, and I, uh--" 

Pidge nearly tore the dollar as she snatched it out of his hand to study it intensely. Lance couldn't blame her. It was an interesting dollar. 

It was Lance's own dollar, but ironed so smooth and crisp that it crackled.

Thing about BIO 301 meant that it covered sexuality. Human sexuality. So while Lance's professor had been talking about ancient pottery covered in age-old carvings of dicks and shit, Lance had noticed someone enter his row and choose a swivel desk right next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Lance had seen dark hair and a red beanie. He almost didn't recognize the person until he saw the thin, pale pink scar running up Keith's jaw over his right cheek. 

While their professor had been invested in ways of old courtship (in excruciating detail), Keith had leaned over and wordlessly slid a dollar across the table until it tickled Lance's elbow. 

**_I ironed it_** , was written in tiny, cramped handwriting at the top of the bill.

An involuntary smile had taken over Lance's face, but when he glanced sideways, Keith was staring straight at Mr. Whittaker (who insisted that they exclusively call him Adam) like he held all the answers to life, not a flicker in expression. But then, just as Lance turned back, there had been a tiny twitch of the lips for a millisecond. 

And then they'd spent the better part of two hours listening to Adam talk about Stone Age pornography in silence.

Talk about _uncomfortable_.

Lance hadn't talked or met Keith after that, because Keith had stayed behind to chat with Adam (whom he apparently knew) and Lance had practice. Hey, just because he was second string didn't mean he wasn't committed.

"What's his name?" Hunk asked eagerly, leaning forward. 

"Keith."

This time it was Pidge who spat her black tea into her mug. "Keith? As in, Keith Kogane?"

Lance stared at her. He'd gotten to know Keith's full name while filling the health form, and it had stuck.

"How do you know him?"

Pidge's amber eyes gleamed. "I might just know this Keith."

"Pidge." Lance fixed her with a Look, a stern one that would usually get his niece and nephew to obey him, but Pidge was uninsultable and immovable. "What are you not telling me?"

"Nothing," she singsonged, her glasses flashing. For a second, Lance was eerily reminded of Matt, until he remembered that Matt actually got into the unintentional innocent kind of shenanigan-able trouble and not Pidge's meddling kind.

So he just settled for an ultra-suspicious look and one that hopefully told her he was onto her, and chugged at his latte. 

. . .

Keith was tired. 

Keith was _so_ tired. 

For one thing, forensic criminology was tiring. It was exhausting to study the errant way of criminals until, like, three in the morning. It meant that sometimes he studied so hard he couldn't spell his own name, but knew how to strangle a man with a toothbrush.

On top of that, Art History demanded that he submit several assignments of the recent thing on Greece they'd just learned. If it was one thing Keith knew, it was that anyone who studied that much Greek art and literature either ended up really gay, really into it, or really both. 

He'd ended up really both by the end of sophomore year, high school. 

So yeah. 

Shiro liked to call this version of tired 'Keith's knowledge coma.' It meant that during a particular period of time, Keith would cram so much information into his brain that it leaked out, and by the end, he was stupider than when he'd begun. It also caused him to go into some kind of funk where he zoned out behind the illusion of being hyper-awake, and he himself couldn't tell whether he was actively _doing_ things or whether his hands were just doing it _for_ him. Several times, Shiro had had to grab Keith, force-feed him a sandwich and some apple juice, and order him to bed. 

(" _I'm not tired, I'm sneaking in little snoozes every time I blink really long_.")

(" _That sentence is the entire reason why if you don't go, I'm gonna knock you out and tuck you in so hard you won't be able to get out_.")

Hey, Shiro might have been the kind and caring Brother™, but he'd been in the military. If someone was too unreasonably irrational with him, he'd get _impatient_.

Yeah, well, this time, Shiro was at work, doing his museum-tour-guide thing. This time, Keith had to get one of his friends to drive him back (because his damned motorcycle was in the shop), and nearly fell asleep as he walked down his street, which looked a little different than he'd last remembered it. Well. It was probably the snow. The snow made everything look like the street had been built haphazardly, like the community architects or whatever put down a cat and said, 'Okay, wherever this cat sits, we build a house.' 

Hence Maple Avenue or whatever the fuck his street was called.

Keith turned a corner and frowned. Shiro's car, his black van, was parked in front of the apartment. Shiro never got home this early, usually because he was the senior supervisor and he loved his job, even though he looked like he wanted to rip his hair out over it a lot.

But this was good. Yesterday, Keith had forgotten his beloved red cropped jacket in the car (the one Shiro said made him look like Marty McFly), and today he needed to dry-clean it or whatever if he didn't want it to smell like stale ramen and barbecue sauce. He kept a spare pair of keys with him at all times, anyway. 

Keith dug the keys out from his pocket, pressing the remote unlock, and pulled the handle.

The door didn't budge.

In the fog of incomprehension that Keith was immersed in, he didn't realize what was wrong. He pressed the clicker again and tugged at the handle. When it didn't open, he pulled even harder.

This time, the alarm went off.

It was a loud, ringing, annoying sound that made Keith slap his hands over his ears and back away from the car, although his tired brain still couldn't comprehend the situation.

"What the fuck?" he whispered to his elbows.

"Hey!" came a loud shout.

Keith wasn't understanding a thing he was doing, but now, he suddenly did. Yeah, faced with a tall boy with familiar blue eyes and long brown legs (for days), he snapped out of his daze.

Lance jogged up to him, round the corner, and skidded to a dead stop when he registered Keith.

"What are you doing?" He didn't sound angry at all, even though to an outsider, it looked like Keith was stealing the car. Lance sounded more breathless than angry. "Are...are you trying to steal my car?"

Ah.

Keith looked at Lance and his perfect face, and then at the car, and then at the keys clutched in his hands. The car's alarm was still going, but it had faded to a kind of background noise, like a steady to-and-fro siren in the back of his brain.

"I'm on the wrong street, aren't I?" was the only sentence that came out of his mouth. Lance looked like he was trying to choke down a laugh and ended up letting some kind of strangled chortle out.

"Yeah, dude. I'm guessing this isn't your car, because it's mine."

Keith watched as Lance fished in his pockets for the keys and almost snorted when he saw the giant chunk of metal Lance finally pulled out. Forget a keychain, the thing was a monstrosity of metal, pink and blue plastic, and one worn-down Rainbow Loom chain. It looked like several keys--including the house keys and garage keys and car keys and _everything_ \--compiled into one piece of cold metal.

"Hey, this is useful!" Lance protested. "It keeps me from losing anything."

"But if you lose it, you'll lose everything," Keith pointed out, watching in amusement as Lance pondered this for a few seconds before cringing.

"I'm not the greatest thinker. That's all Pidge." Lance clicked the button, and the alarm stopped wailing. "So, um, you're Keith."

"You're Lance," was all Keith said. Lance seemed to struggle with some internal conflict for a few seconds, before blurting:

"I'd like to make up for hitting you with my car. Like, I gave you stitches and now I owe you something."

Keith raised an eyebrow. "Like a housewarming present?"

"No," Lance pursued. "Like, um, waffles? To make you forget the fact that the first time we met was in a crappy 7-Eleven and I hit you with my car."

"Pancakes?"

"Pancakes," Lance said, nodding very quickly. "I can do pancakes. I know, like, the best pancake place in Garrison City. It's _the_ best. You have _got_ to try it."

It was fun to watch him squirm, but Keith wasn't a _complete_ asshole.

"I suppose sitting in the ER getting stitches isn't the best first date. Even you did kind of steal lollipops from pediatrics."

Lance chuckled, and Keith's heart flip-flopped. "Yeah, but you have to admit, hospital lollipops are great."

"They're very rewarding," Keith agreed.

They just gazed at each other for a few seconds, still leaning against Lance's car, until Lance held up a finger.

"Hold up. Give me a second. Stay _right there_."

He did a one-eighty and almost tripped as he jogged back into his apartment. Keith grinned slightly. It wasn't like he was going anywhere, and besides, Lance was too pretty to leave.

He'd been waiting for around ninety seconds (he counted) when Lance jogged back, slightly out of breath.

"Sorry," he panted, and held up a dollar bill. "I had to look through all my jackets and my drawers, and I remembered that I must have put it in my wallet, and--"

Keith stared at the still-crisp dollar bill. His tiny little looped handwriting was still over the top left corner, but now there were large words (a mix of small letters and full caps) in bright blue glitter pen.

**_Mullet's dollar._ **

A snort of indignation escaped him. "This isn't a mullet. It's just long at the back and short at the front. That's--"

"A mullet," Lance agreed. Keith narrowed his eyes at him but took the dollar with a smile anyway.

He'd return it later, under the pretense of yet another dumb excuse.

"Pancakes?"

Lance nodded enthusiastically. "Pancakes."

**Author's Note:**

> I'M TOO PROUD OF THE PUN IN THE TITLE TO APOLOGIZE. 
> 
> P.S. The Lance childhood tidbits were lifted word-for-word from my own childhood. Just substitute Lance's name (and Veronica's, in the case of the kite) with mine, and the siblings' names with my brother (who isn't that much of a dick, I'll give him that), and you get a patchwork of my childhood.   
> P.P.S. Down to the last detail, people. I remember the fucken stranger danger video they showed in my brother's taekwondo class. I WAS FOUR.  
> P.P.P.S. What's your brother like? Mine is actually the most soft-spoken, timid person there is, even if he's six foot two. I'm the aggressive one, like seven inches shorter than him and READY TO THROW HANDS if someone dares mess with him.


End file.
